


Rain

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:41:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment with Sam and Frodo and the weather.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rain

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.
> 
> This is an edited version of the extremely old story, 'Crystalline Rain,' of my ancient FFN account.

The second a drop hits him, Sam looks up, and the next one lands right between his eyes. Frodo’s already closing his book and bounding to his feet, and Sam hastily follows. There’s a tree nearby they both make it to right before the real downpour starts, erupting around them like a hurricane. Frodo holds his book over his head to keep himself dry, and Sam squints up through the trees at the lack of dark clouds.

“That was fast,” Frodo mumbles, his pretty face almost pouting. A stray bead of water trickles down his forehead, and he scrunches his eyes closed and shakes his head. His chocolate curls bounce perfectly back into place; Sam has to chide himself for staring again.

“Maybe if we run home, Mr. Frodo?” he suggests. “Real quick like, too fast for it to get us?”

Frodo’s face lights up beautifully with his smile, and he laughs, “Samwise Gamgee, you can’t outrun the _rain_!”

Lips quirking similarly, Sam insists, “Begging your pardon, Mr. Frodo, but we don’t exactly have any choice, unless we want to be out here all night.” 

It’s about super time, and the sky isn’t as bright as it was when they first set out. Frodo peers out along the horizon as if to confirm this. ...Not that Sam would at all mind sleeping outdoors with Frodo, maybe huddled together for warmth and security, under the stars. Sam wouldn’t mind sleeping anywhere, if he could only do so with Frodo. He tries not to show this all over his face when Frodo looks at him.

“I suppose you have a point,” Frodo says slowly. He takes his book down and wipes his hand over it, shucking a few drops aside. Then he tucks it under his arm, looking back up to say, “I guess it _is_ worth a shot.”

Sam grins proudly, knowing full well they’ll both be soaking by the end of this. Nodding, he asks, “On your mark then?”

Frodo’s chuckle reaches his eyes, and Sam tries not to get lost in them. Frodo has the most brilliant blue eyes of any hobbit in the Shire, and Sam could forget his own name looking into those depths. Frodo steps to the edge of their sanctuary, right in front of the curtain of water. He gets into a running position, and he cautiously says, “One... two...”

On ‘three,’ they both take off, uttering similar curses as the rain hits them. The previously perfect grass is now a muddied bog, and Sam struggles not to slip in it as they bolt up the path. They reach the little fence at the end of the field and Sam stumbles over it, turning to help a very wet Frodo that follows. Sam’s hands linger a little too long, and the next thing he knows, Frodo is out of his arms again, taking off up the path. Sam follows as quick as he can, the wind leaving him before they’re past the second house.

Trying to outrun rain is, perhaps as expected, a completely hopeless attempt. The water gets everywhere, soaking through all of Sam’s clothes and slicking down his hair, getting in his eyes and making it hard to see. The whole of Hobbiton is trapped in a shower, and there’s a grey sort of fog that’s taken over with it. He can just barely see Frodo up ahead. Frodo’s just as wet, and his white shirt is clinging gorgeously to his frame, his feet almost as brown as his trousers. When he steps in a mud puddle, he topples over—Sam reaches him just in time to catch him.

Sam steadies him out, while Frodo adjusts his grip on his book. His cheeks are slightly flushed from running, and there’re little flecks of dewy grass stuck to his trousers. They’re next to a field of glimmering flowers lit up by the rain, and they nod at each other before taking off again. Frodo’s faster and gets ahead again, although a few paces in, he reaches back to grab Sam’s hand, as if to tug him faster along. The water hides Sam’s blush, and he squeezes Frodo’s fingers under the guise of holding on.

It’s a while up the hill before they reach Bag End, and Sam barrels awkwardly into Frodo’s back when Frodo takes too long trying to open the latch. Then they’re up the makeshift stairs and wrenching open the door, toppling into the threshold. They’ve both been running so fast that neither stops in time—the door swings loudly shut behind them, and they both fall sloppily to the floor.

Sam ‘oofs’ at the impact but is otherwise too temporarily exhausted to move. He’s panting heavily. He’s dripping a bit of a lake all over Frodo’s nice floor. He rolls onto his back and looks over, intent on saying sorry.

Except that they’re so close that rolling over has dropped Sam’s arm across Frodo’s side. Frodo’s panting just as hard. He’s completely wet from head to toe, and the thin fabric of his shirt is practically transparent and glued to his fair skin. His cheeks are rosy and his nose is a little pink, and his thick lashes are half-down, sky blue eyes hazy. His lips are moist and open, looking so kissable that it’s all Sam can do not to roll right over on top of him.

When Frodo looks back at Sam, his hair’s grown dark with the water and covers his forehead. Sam shifts onto his side and reaches a hand over without thinking, brushing Frodo’s bangs away. Frodo just smiles appreciatively, leaning into Sam’s hand.

Then he mumbles quietly, “That was a terrible idea. I think you ruined my book.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says instantly. “I’ll get you a new one.”

Frodo shrugs his small shoulders against the floor, sighing, “It’s alright; I’d already read it.” Sam plans to replace it anyway, even though Frodo doesn’t look in the least bit upset.

Frodo just looks _perfect_ , just like he always does. Even sopping wet. Sam hasn’t moved his arm off Frodo’s chest yet, and Frodo doesn’t move away from it. Frodo still doesn’t move when Sam drops the hand in Frodo’s hair to his face, cupping it gently.

Sam can’t help himself. Frodo’s too handsome. He’s too alluring. He’s too innocent and too easy, lying right there with nothing but contentment in his eyes. Sam rolls all the way over, his shoulder hitting Frodo’s, and when his head hovers over Frodo’s, a bit of water slips out of his hair to hit Frodo’s forehead. Frodo closes his eyes; Sam presses their lips together.

Frodo tastes like the strawberry jam they had earlier. He smells like the lilacs they were lying in, and he lifts a hand to fist in Sam’s hair, holding him down. Sam couldn’t pull back even if he wanted to. He never wants to. Frodo’s too cold—the rain has done a number on him. Bag End is relatively warm inside, and Sam presses their chests together, wet as they are, sharing all the body heat there is.

When Sam pulls back, Frodo’s still smiling. Sam doesn’t know if he’s more shocked from his own bout of courage or Frodo’s reaction. “You just wanted to get me wet?” Frodo asks softly. Sam blushes and would insist not if he had the words.

But now that he knows he can, he goes in for another kiss.


End file.
